Her fingers land on his forearm unexpectedly. Not harsh. Not desperate. But firm enough that he feels the tremor in her hand before he even notices the tremor in her breath.
He is reaching deeper—slow, cautious, feeling the way her body reacts to every inch he explores. And she grips him. Not to stop him. Not to pull him closer. But to hold onto herself. To steady the part of her that wants to fall apart under his touch.
Older women do not grip a man lightly at a moment like this. The grip means she is fighting something inside her—something she has denied, silenced, starved. She has lived too long pretending desire is manageable, controllable, something she can outgrow. But his hand disproves all of that with one slow, deliberate movement.
Her fingers tighten around his forearm.
Her nails sink slightly into his skin.
Her breath catches on the way out.
She’s not afraid. She’s overwhelmed.
The deeper he moves, the more her carefully built composure fractures. She leans into him, her forehead brushing his chest, her lips parted in a breath she can’t contain. Her other hand slides up his arm, not to push him away but to anchor herself—like she needs something solid to hold onto while everything inside her melts.
Her grip pulses with her heartbeat.
A silent confession in every squeeze:
“I still want this.”
“I still want you.”
“I still can’t control how I feel when you touch me.”
She won’t say any of this aloud. Older women rarely do. They hide their longing behind calm expressions and measured words. But the body betrays what the heart refuses to speak. And right now, her body is louder than her pride.
When he pauses—just for a second—she tightens her grip, a small, involuntary sound escaping her throat. A sound she would never allow herself to make under any other circumstance. It’s the sound of need, not memory.
Her thighs soften, then tense. Her lips graze his shoulder. Her breath warms his collarbone. She leans so close he can feel the tremble in her chest.
She is losing the fight against her own craving.
And she knows it.
That is why she grips him—not to stop him, but to steady herself as she gives in. As she remembers what it feels like to be touched the way she hasn’t been touched in years.
By the time she finally loosens her hold, the truth is already written in the warmth of her fingers:
“I still ache for you… and I don’t know how to pretend otherwise.”
